As Josh talks, I leave the perplexing police photos behind and walk down the long hall to my bedroom, hearing about the battle for beach parking permits, the covey of bright umbrellas on the sand every day, the trips to Jam’s Deli for coleslaw-soaked turkey sandwiches, the swarms of kids boogie-boarding and digging for shells. “Everyone’s reading the same two books,” he reports. “All that’s missing is you.”
Holding the phone between my shoulder and cheek, I peel off my sweatpants and hang them over two or three others on an overflowing hook on the back of my closet door. Sand and sunshine, huh. So far, there’s been no summer for me. I stick my tongue out at the glum-faced blonde in the mirror, which makes her smile in spite of herself. Stop complaining.
“Lobsters tomorrow, right?” I say. “And perhaps, that shower?”
“It’s tonight I’m thinking about,” Josh purrs. “Penny’s off, up in her room with her new goldfish. Flo and Eddy. And that leaves you and me, alone. Wish you were here,” he whispers.
“Tomorrow,” I say. Botox has already curled up in my open suitcase, announcing her decision that it’s actually a new cat bed. She’s pretending she doesn’t know Jen the pet sitter will be visiting twice a day this weekend. “I can’t wait. I’ll be there soon as I can after work. I promise.” And I mean it.
I SEE THE SHOES FIRST. Even all the way from the double glass entrance doors leading to the Special Projects Unit, I can see the black patent platforms, precariously high, attached to slender ankles. I deduce, as I slowly approach my very own office, that someone other than me is sitting at my very own desk. Wearing those shoes.
That’s pretty nervy. And since I don’t see Franklin’s shoes, she’s clearly there uninvited.
I’m almost at the door, staring at patent leather the whole way, when one shiny toe begins to tap, telegraphing an entitled impatience. That’s even nervier. I’ll tell you who’s entitled. I’m entitled to my own desk.
I arrive at the door. Of course. Poison.
And not only is Susannah sitting at my desk, she’s clicking into my computer. She turns, apparently unaware of the expanding list of office protocol don’ts she’s amassing, and claps her bling-spangled hands.
“Oh, fabulous, you’re here, Charlie,” she says. “Happy Friday.” She actually waves me toward Franklin’s chair. “Have a seat. Let’s dish.”
My brain is sparking with short circuits and liable to burst into flames, so I compromise by leaning against Franklin’s desk.
“Hey, Susannah,” I say. “Any good e-mails this morning?”
She waves at my computer, sarcasm flying right above her hyper-coiffed head. “I’m not checking my e-mail, Charlie, but thanks, though. Now. I had the boys in MIS install what we’re calling a ‘Susannah schedule’ on your computer. See this star on the desktop?” She clicks a few keys and shows me a new icon. “Click here, every morning when you come in, and you can log in the outfit you’re wearing. It’ll keep track of all your clothes. So you don’t, you know, repeat?” She tilts her head, as if she’s my Malibu Barbie TV sorority sister. “You know? Do you love it? I mean, do you love it?”
“It’s fabulous,” I say. “I can hardly imagine how I lived without it.”
“Now,” she continues. “Also on this Susannah schedule is the timing for the Charlie’s Crusade promos. Shooting, editing. Then air dates. As you can see, the graphics are done.”
She clicks a few more times, and the double C’s appear again. “Do you love it? And then we’re editing in eight days. On the air in ten, or whenever we get the big green light.”
“You know, Susannah, the Charlie’s Crusade story, from our end, is not really on the same schedule as the promotion department. You know?” I pause, checking for a glimmer of comprehension. None. “We’re on the trail, of course, and the story could certainly be compelling and successful. But I’m still somewhat concerned, as I’ve tried to say, that we’re-”
“Kevin says you always come through, and warned me you investigative types always worry too much,” Susannah says, with a dismissive wave. “And the news director is never wrong.” She stands up, gathers her portfolio from my desk, then looks me up and down, her face registering something like bewilderment. “Black linen slacks and sandals? White T-shirt? Jean jacket? Are you…” She searches for a word. “Undercover?”
“Just headed to the Cape, after work,” I explain. Who is she, my mother? I risk another stab at sarcasm. “I’m not on the air today, obviously. So I won’t be entering this in the computer, is that how it works?”
Susannah looks relieved. “Well, then, I’m sure that’s fine. Have a-oh.” She turns back to the desk and picks up a pink slip of paper. I can see it’s from Franklin’s “while you were out” pad. I’ve never needed one of those, because I don’t answer anyone else’s phone. And no one else answers mine. Until apparently, now.
“Your phone rang,” she says.
I can’t even think of a polite response. Happily, she doesn’t wait for an answer and hands me the paper. “Your mother called. She said to tell you she needs to see you.”
I slowly stand up, staring at the pink paper. I forget about office protocol. “Did she say why?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Like, needs to see me, come over when you have a chance?” I persist. “Or needs to see me, get over here right now?”
“Ah, she didn’t say,” Susannah replies with a tiny shrug.
Susannah may have had more to add before she teetered out of the room, but I’m already grabbing Franklin’s phone and punching in Mom’s number. I think I can hear the clicks as the second hand ticks forward on our big wall clock. “Come on, come on,” I mutter. “Answer.”
There’s a click, and a whir. A mechanical voice begins its canned reply.
“The patient you have dialed…” I look at the receiver, then slam it down.
“CHOCOLATE?”
I’m baffled. I thought I’d be facing a swarm of doctors, or worse, one grim-faced surgeon shepherding me into a private corner. Instead, Mom is holding out a gold-foiled box of square dark chocolates, untouched, each nested in its own shiny ruffle.
“Take one, dear,” she urges. She’s not offering the selection to me, of course, since her vision of my weight coalesced during my preteen years. When my dress size was “chubbette.”
The white-coated soap opera wannabe adjusting Mom’s quilt offers a camera-worthy pout. “Aren’t you a devil,” he says. He clicks Mom’s heart-rate-and-respiration monitor back onto her finger, then inspects the assortment. “These things are e-vil.”
“Mom?” I step closer to the hospital bed, dangling the pink message slip between two fingers. “You said you needed to see me?” Did I miss something here?
Mom, still wearing a perky hostess smile, lifts a quick “wait a minute” finger. The nurse, temptation resisted, bustles out with a promise to return. As soon as the door closes, Mom slides her candy into her nightstand drawer and pats the bed beside her.
“Sit down, Charlotte.” She looks around the room, although obviously we’re alone. “Listen dear,” she says. “I’m going to need to recuperate at your apartment. I don’t think I can stay here any longer.”
“Of course,” I say, hoping my face hasn’t turned green. Over the years, I’ve learned just to agree with Mother, then wait for her to change her mind. Then I get the brownie points without having to actually do whatever it was. I sit in the cozy club chair, though I’m nowhere near comfortable. “But Mother, why?” I continue. “You were supposed to be here for at least two weeks. To make sure all your sutures heal properly. And I thought you loved it here. And your doctors are here, all your nurses. People can watch out for you. Monitor you.”
“Well, they’re not doing a very good job of watching someone, at least,” she says, and her voice grows softer, even conspiratorial. She fiddles with the silky fringe on the throw pillow she’s now clutching across her chest. “It’s all very hush-hush, but when my door is open, I can see things. Going on. People are walking too fast. Stretchers, going by. People I don’t recognize.” She pauses. “You know what I think? I think someone has…well. I tried to find out on my own, of course, but no one will give me the time of day.”